The Merciless (10 page)

B
rooklyn's gone. I back into Riley and her body stiffens. Her fingers enclose my wrists.

“Where is she?” Riley asks.

“I don't know.”

Riley drops my arm. Her eyes widen, and she scans the bathroom, edging her way toward the door. Every muscle in her body tenses, as if she expects Brooklyn to jump out of the walls.

I replay the situation in my head again and again, like it's a math problem that doesn't add up. I wrap my arms around my chest and search the bathroom. Grace clutches the doorframe, her knuckles going white. Alexis hovers next to her. The corner of her lips twists into something between a smile and a grimace.

“We should have known she would get away,” she says. I ignore her and start throwing open the cabinets and closet and shower doors. Empty, all of them. Brooklyn really isn't here.

“Where the
fuck
is she?” Riley slams her open palm against the counter next to the sink.

“Riley—”

“No!” Riley snaps, cutting me off. “We have to find her. Now!”

The weird smile stays painted on Alexis's face. She wraps a long blond strand of hair around one finger. “Don't you get it? She's going to find
us
, and then she's going to kill us.”

“No!” Riley jerks her head back and forth. “No. She's too weak. That's not going to happen. Grace, search the basement. The rest of us will look for her on the main floors.”

“Why would we look for her inside?” Grace is talking so fast that her words slur together. “She probably went right for the front door, Ri.”

“No,” Riley insists. “There's no way out, I made sure of it. She's still in the house. We just have to find here.”

Grace looks like she might say something else, but instead she presses her lips together and nods.

“You check the bedrooms,” Riley says to Alexis. “Sofia and I will look downstairs.”

Alexis's smile fades. “You want me to go alone?”

“Just do it.” Riley grabs my arm and pulls me from the room into the hall.

Shadows pool in the corners. The plastic hanging from the ceiling rustles in phantom wind. Every second that ticks past pounds at the inside of my skull. I
want
Brooklyn to get away from here. I should be trying to mess Riley up—every moment we waste could be the moment Brooklyn finds an open window or a door without a lock on it.

But as much as I want this to be over and for Brooklyn to be safe, I still don't know what she's capable of. She could be hiding around every corner, waiting on the other side of every wall. She could be anywhere.

A floorboard groans. I jump and spin around, but it's just Grace. She slips down the stairs without a word.

Riley lifts the worn black backpack from the floor where I dropped it. She pulls it open and removes the butcher knife. Her bare feet are practically silent as she moves down the hallway, her back to the wall to keep the floorboards from creaking. I picture the rows of nails wedged into the window frames. There's no way Brooklyn could pull them out of the wood before we reach the first floor. I have to stall Riley.

“Hurry,” Riley hisses. She starts down the stairs, and when she reaches the landing, she pauses and cocks her head.

I hear it, too—laughing. At first it's faint, but then it bubbles into a giggle and cuts off abruptly. I turn to look for Alexis, but the hallway behind me is empty. She must've already gone into another room.

“Check on Lexie,” Riley says. The top of her head disappears from view as she makes her way to the first floor.

I drag my feet down the hall until I'm standing in front of the window at the end of the hall, next to the cloudy sheet of plastic hanging from the ceiling. Out of the corner of my eye I see something dart across the floor, and I spin around. A knotted rope hangs from the ceiling, casting a shadow that sweeps over the floor as it sways back and forth, back and forth. I reach out to steady it, then tilt my head, following the rope to a door directly above me. The attic.

The plastic sheet rustles, even though there's no wind.

“Brooklyn?” I turn, listening for breathing, but I only hear my own heart hammering in my chest. The blurry shadows between the plastic and the unfinished wall look large enough to be a person. I step closer, my sneakers squeaking against the floor. I lift a shaking hand and wrap my fingers around the plastic.

Someone laughs. I turn so quickly I lose my balance and stumble into the window behind me. The pane shudders, and for a second I'm certain it'll crack. But it holds. The glass feels cold against my bare arms.

There's silence in the empty hallway, then the laughter rises again. It's breathless at first. Then gasping—hysterical. It's coming from the bedroom across from me. I creep forward and push open the door.

Alexis is alone in the empty room, her wide, vacant eyes fixed on some point on the wall in front of her. She balances on the sides of her feet, curling her bare toes inward, like claws. Blood stains the skin along the bottoms of her feet.

Giggling quietly to herself, she twists a long strand of blond hair around her finger. Tighter and tighter she winds it, until her fingertip turns blue.

Then she yanks—pulling the hair right out of her head.

I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands to muffle the sound. Alexis turns her head slowly, like she just realized I was there.

“Don't you think it's funny?” She spreads her fingers and the lock flutters out of her hand, landing on a pile of hair at her feet. Curly strands cover the floor like tiny blond question marks.

“What's funny, Alexis?” I swallow, forcing my eyes away from the hair.

“We're all going to die here,” she says in a raspy voice. “We're going to die screaming.”

A chill runs down my spine. The door behind me slams open and hits the wall with a crack. I take a deep breath as I turn around, so I don't look as terrified as I feel.

Riley stands in the hallway, one hand curled around the doorframe while the other rests next to her leg, clutching the butcher knife. Brown crusty blood clings to the hems of her jeans. She glances at the hair piled beside Alexis's bare feet but says nothing.

“Find Brooklyn yet?” Alexis asks. Riley taps the knife against her leg.

“She's not downstairs.” Riley lowers her hand from the doorframe and steps into the hallway to glance out the window. “Grace thinks—”

A ceiling beam groans above us.

“What was that?” I whisper.

“She's on the roof.” Alexis puts a cold hand on my arm. Blond hair clings to her fingertips. “How did she get on the roof?”

The attic door falls open with a crack. Riley jumps and her knife clatters to the floor, its handle sliding beneath the plastic sheet behind her.

I swear under my breath and stumble into Alexis. She releases a string of half-crazy giggles and winds another bunch of blond hair around her finger. The attic door swings back and forth, its hinges creaking.

“No one's there,” Riley gasps, relief flooding her face. She kneels, fumbling along the floor with shaking hands. She stares at the dark hole in the ceiling that leads to the attic while she gropes for the knife. I watch the door, too, picturing Brooklyn dropping down on us. Every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure appear behind the plastic sheet covering the walls.

Before I can react, Brooklyn tears the sheet from the ceiling and brings it down over Riley's face. Riley screams, and Brooklyn tightens the plastic around her head, pulling her to the floor. She pins Riley's arm to the floor with her shoulder and tightens the plastic around her face.

“Help!” Riley yells, sucking the plastic to her lips. Her fingers find the butcher knife, and she waves it around wildly.

Brooklyn pulls her hand back and slams it into Riley's face. She tries to tear the knife out of her hand, but Riley's gripping it tight as she stabs at the air, blinded from the cloudy plastic covering her face. Gritting her teeth, Brooklyn slams her elbow into Riley's fist. Riley swears, and her fingers go slack around the knife handle. Brooklyn yanks at the knife again, and this time she tugs it free.

“Get away from her!” Alexis races toward them just as Brooklyn struggles to her feet, holding the knife in front of her. Alexis freezes, then takes a step backward.

“Don't you fucking touch me!” Brooklyn shouts. Now that's she's not tumbling around on the ground with Riley, I see just how thrashed she looks. Her clothes are soaked and bloodied, and her hair sticks up in damp spikes. The toilet paper around her destroyed pinkie is gone, revealing the red stub where the tip of her finger used to be. The dirty tub water washed the blood from her skin, but that only makes it easier to see the deep, ugly cuts twisting across her face and legs and arms. Angry purple bruises blossom on her cheeks like flowers.

I lift both arms in surrender and try to catch Brooklyn's eyes. They're shifty and nervous, like a wild animal's. But she holds the knife steady.

“Brooklyn.” I take a step toward her and she jabs the knife at me. This is the moment I've been hoping for since Riley first locked us in the basement. The power has shifted. We can finally escape. “Brooklyn, please. I . . .”

Riley pulls the plastic sheet away from her face and pushes herself to her elbow, kicking Brooklyn's legs out from under her. Brooklyn falls backward and slams into the wall. She loses her grip on the knife, and it clatters to the floor. Riley leaps to her feet and rushes her, throwing a shoulder into Brooklyn's gut. Brooklyn regains her footing, and the two girls stumble to the edge of the staircase. Brooklyn starts to fall backward down the stairs and Riley tries to pull away from her, but Brooklyn grabs her by the hair, and they hit the floor together. They teeter at the top of the stairs before rolling over the edge, crashing downward in a tangle of arms and legs.

I race to the top of the staircase, Alexis right behind me. They hit the landing together, and Riley manages to pull herself away from Brooklyn. Brooklyn tries to stand, but Riley kicks her in the chest, sending her plummeting down the rest of the stairs alone. I race after her, but before I reach the landing, Brooklyn rolls onto the floor. She lays there, unmoving.

Riley pushes herself onto her elbow, her breathing ragged. Her hair is slicked back with sweat, and there's a new bruise forming at her jawline. Alexis kneels next to her.

“Does that hurt?” she asks. She tries to touch Riley's bruise, but Riley swats her hand away, glaring at her. I move around them and start down the steps.

Brooklyn's arm is wrenched behind her, her legs curled beneath her body at strange, unnatural angles. The bottom steps are streaked with blood. I hold on to the railing as I make my way to the first floor. Riley says something, but her words blur before they reach my ears. I'm focused entirely on Brooklyn. I watch her eyes, praying for them to flicker open. But they're still.

Halfway down the stairs, I notice Grace hovering next to the wall. It's so dark that her sweatshirt and blue jeans blend into the shadows, and I can't quite make out her expression. She must hear me walking down the stairs because she glances up from Brooklyn's body.

“I think she's dead,” Grace says.

“S
he's not dead.” Riley pushes herself to her feet and limps across the landing. “Grace, help me carry her.”

Grace stares at Brooklyn's body. Her lower lip trembles. “I . . . I don't . . .”

“We should call the police,” I interrupt. “Or an ambulance. She could be . . .” I falter, not wanting to say the word
dead
out loud. “She could be seriously hurt.”

Riley winces as she puts weight on her left leg and starts down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. She hesitates next to me and lowers her voice so the other girls don't hear.

“What would we tell the police? That the girl we've been torturing accidentally fell down the stairs?”

She says this so bluntly that it takes a moment for her words to sink in. I smell the wine on Riley's breath, but I don't meet her eyes.

“You were here, too, Sofia,” Riley continues. “You think
anyone
is going to believe you're innocent just because you tried not hit her when you threw matches on her bare legs?”

“You saw that?” I ask.

“I see everything. Go splash some water on your face. Alexis, Grace, and I will get Brooklyn upstairs.”

The thought of using that sludgy brown water on my face makes my stomach churn, but I head up the stairs anyway. I need to be away from Riley.

I pass Alexis on my way up the stairs. She tilts her head to the side, like she's listening to something I can't hear. There's a raw red spot behind her ear where she pulled out her hair.

I creep past her without a word and head for the master bedroom, but when I put a hand on the doorknob, I change my mind. I don't want to go inside the bathroom where Brooklyn almost drowned. Instead, I make my way farther down the hall, opening doors until I find another bathroom. I slip inside and close the door. Then I lock it, turning the knob as quietly as possible so there's no chance Riley will hear it on the first floor.

With a locked door separating me from Riley, I feel safer than I have in hours. I clench my eyes shut and lean my head against the wood, and I have to dig my teeth into my lower lip to keep from sobbing out loud. All the fear and nerves and anxiety bubble up inside me, and I curl my hands into fists. This pulls the mangled skin on my knuckles and makes the torn cuticles around my fingernails sting, reminding me why I'm here in the first place. I lower my hands and take two shaky breaths.

There isn't a mirror hanging on the wall over the sink, just empty white space. It's probably better, I think, as I switch the faucet on and off. I don't want to know what I look like after spending the night in a bloody, smoky basement. I check over my shoulder again and again to make sure the bathtub behind me stays empty. With my back to it, I find myself picturing Brooklyn sitting inside, blood and muddy water streaming from her hair.

It takes a while for water to spurt out of the faucet, and this time it's not muddy and thick, just a little brown. I run the water over my hands, cringing when it hits the skin at my knuckles and around my fingernails.

There's a hair tie next to the faucet, a pink one with a strand of brown hair curled around it. I flick it to the floor, wondering if there's a single room in this house Riley hasn't been. I put my hands back below the water, and, after a moment, it actually feels good. I close my eyes, keeping my hands below the stream until the cold turns them numb.

I turn the faucet off and open my eyes again, glancing back down at the sink just as a cicada pokes its head from the drain. I choke down a scream and stumble back so quickly that my feet bang against the tub and I have to grab hold of the wall to keep myself from falling inside. The cicada crawls out of the drain and into the sink, wings spreading.

Someone bangs on the door. “Sofia! Hurry, we need your help.”

Straightening, I unlock the door and pull it open, one eye on the cicada inching across the counter as I slip into the hallway. My skin tingles when I pull the door shut behind me.

“Watch your head,” Alexis says, and I duck out of the way as she slides a ladder from the door in the ceiling. Behind her, Grace and Riley drag Brooklyn down the hallway by her arms. I watch her for signs that she's starting to wake, but she doesn't move.

Riley stops at the foot of the ladder. She lets go of Brooklyn's arm, and there's a sick thud as it drops to the floor.

“Sof, you'll have to hold her around her chest and go up backward,” Riley says, nodding toward the attic. “Then Grace and I can each take a leg.”

“You want to take her to the attic?” I ask. The attic is dark—darker than the basement or the hall next to the kitchen. I doubt there are any windows.

“The basement was getting too smoky,” Riley says, wrinkling her nose. “And the attic has a good lock, so there's no chance she'll get away again. Lexie, why don't you run downstairs and get the candles? It'll give us some light.”

Obedient as ever, Alexis nods. Her bare feet slap against the floor as she heads down the hallway. Riley takes one of Brooklyn's legs and Grace shuffles forward, doing the same.

“Sof,” Riley says, nodding at Brooklyn's chest. “We need your help.”

Reluctantly, I slide my arms around Brooklyn's torso and lift her off the ground. My hands tighten around her chest, and I feel the faint
thump thump
of her heartbeat just below her rib cage. Relief floods through me. She's alive.

The three of us slowly make our way up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to redistribute Brooklyn's weight among us. The attic stairs are too steep to go up backward without holding on to anything, so I keep one arm wrapped around Brooklyn's chest and the other hooked over the rickety railing attached to the ladder. Brooklyn isn't heavy, but her body still threatens to slip from my grip.

Finally, we make it into the attic. Raw wooden beams and pink insulation form the walls, and the ceiling angles sharply upward. Stacks of faded
Vogue
magazines sit in the corners, next to Ziploc bags filled with nail polish bottles and an old hair straightener. Empty beer and wine bottles line an entire wall of the attic, arranged by height.

“What is all this?” I ask, panting as we drag Brooklyn off the ladder and onto the unfinished attic floor. Riley glances up and shrugs.

“I come here on my own sometimes,” she says. “Just to get away from home.”

From the look of things, she comes here all the time. I keep my head ducked until we get Brooklyn to the center of the room, where a thick wooden beam juts up from the floor. Then I lean against another wooden beam, exhausted from my climb up the stairs. The tiny circular window on the far wall looks out over the main street.

I steal a glance out the window, still hoping Josh got my text message and he's on his way now. But the street is empty, and steely black clouds cover the moon, bathing everything in darkness.

“Grace, get me that rope,” Riley says, pointing to a metal toolbox next to the wall. Next to the toolbox is the bright yellow nail gun she used to nail the bathroom window shut earlier. I stare down at it, wondering when she brought it up here.

Riley positions Brooklyn against the beam, and when Grace hands her the rope, she begins winding it around Brooklyn's body until there's a thick layer of rope binding Brooklyn in place. Her head lolls forward, and her chin rests against her chest.

“There,” Riley says, knotting the rope behind Brooklyn. “That should hold her.”

“We left the backpack downstairs,” Grace says. She hovers near the ladder, one hand still gripping the wooden railing. “I'll get it.”

Grace climbs down the ladder. Once her head is out of view, Riley turns to me, but before she can say a word, a sharp, clear ringing cuts through the house. The doorbell. Riley's face hardens. My heart jumps in my chest—Josh.

Riley races to the ladder and starts to the second floor, going so fast the rickety wood creaks and groans beneath her weight. I head for the ladder to follow her, but Riley jumps the rest of the way down. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and starts sliding it back into place.

“Watch her,” she yells up at me.

“Wait!” I cry out as Riley pushes the ladder up. The door closes, and there's a clicking sound as it locks into place. “Riley!” I shout, banging on the floor. I work the lever to get the ladder to release, but it holds, tight. The doorbell rings again. Heavy footsteps race down the stairs.

Shit
, I think to myself. She did this on purpose. I push myself to my feet and run across the attic to the window. I press my face up to the glass and squint out onto the street. A bright red pickup is parked by the side of the road. Someone's in the front seat, his arm resting on the open window.

I recognize the rumpled shirt immediately.

“Charlie!” I slam my hand against the window hard, hoping the glass will shatter. “Charlie!” My voice starts to go hoarse, but I don't care—I shout anyway. “Look up! Look up!”

The front door swings open downstairs, and low voices sound just below me. If Charlie hears me at all he doesn't show it. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, then motions impatiently to Josh at the front door. The voices downstairs get louder—it sounds like he and Riley are arguing. I curl my hand into a fist and bang it against the window. The glass shudders, but it doesn't break.

“Sofia?” The voice is weak and raspy. I stop pounding on the glass and turn around. Brooklyn lifts her head and her eyelids flutter open.

“You're awake!” I crouch next to Brooklyn, studying her face. She cringes and tries to move her arm, but the rope holds her tight.

“Fuck,” she says, pulling against the rope. “Where am I?”

“Attic.” I crawl over to her and try to pull the ropes away with my hands, but they're knotted, tightly, behind her back. “We're locked up here together.” Outside, a car engine roars to life.

“No.” I stand and turn around to face the window. A flash of white cuts across the street as the truck lights turn on. I press my face to the glass just in time to watch the pickup pull away from the house.

“No!” I slam my fist against the wall. Desperate, frustrated tears sting my eyes. “No!” I shout again. “Come back!”

“Sofia?” Brooklyn shifts on the floor, making the rope binding her groan. Too numb to answer her, I slide to the ground, choking back tears.

“Josh and Charlie were here,” I explain. “But they're gone now.”

Brooklyn turns her head to the side. Her eyes sweep across the room, studying the old bottles and dog-eared magazines. She wrinkles her nose. “And Riley and the others? Where are they?”

“Downstairs.”

Brooklyn's eyes widen. “So we're alone?”

I nod toward the door behind her. “Yeah, but we're locked in.”

“Attic doors like that lock automatically, but there's a trick to get them to release.” Brooklyn motions to the ropes with her chin. “Untie me and I'll show you.”

I study Riley's old things as I cross the attic toward Brooklyn. Riley's porcelain doll sits next to an ancient pink plastic CD player. A new crack cuts between the doll's eyes, like a scar. I shiver, thoroughly creeped out.

I crouch next to Brooklyn and start working on the knots binding her to the pillar. Behind me, something clicks.

“
Shout to the
 . . .
Shout to the
 . . .
Shout to the
 . . .” The words fill each nook and cranny of the attic, echoing off the exposed beams.

I stand and stumble backward. “What the hell is that?”

“It's that CD player.” Brooklyn says, studying something behind me. “You must have kicked it.”

“
Shout . . . shout . . . shout
—”

I turn and grab the CD player, hitting the power button. As soon as the music cuts off I hear something else—scratching. It's coming from the corner.

“Do you hear that?” I ask, moving toward the noise. It goes silent.

“It's probably just rats,” Brooklyn says, shifting on the floor. “Sof, come on, you have to untie me.”

“Right.” I shake my head and hurry back over to Brooklyn. “Downstairs,” I say as I pull at her ropes. “In the basement, you said you pushed that teacher off a ladder.”

“
Lies
,” Brooklyn insists. “Everything I ‘confessed' was a lie. I thought Riley would let me go if I played her game.”

“I knew it,” I say, and a wave of relief washes over me. I work my fingers around the knot, but I can't manage to pull it free. Frustrated, I sit back on my heels.

“I need scissors or a knife or . . .” I spot the toolbox under the window and get an idea. I race over to it, and dig around inside for one of the long, slightly crooked nails. “This might work.”

I crouch next to Brooklyn again and try to work the nail through the knot. I manage to loosen it a little before the sweaty nail slips from my fingers. I swear under my breath and fumble along the floor with my fingers.

The scratching sounds in the corner. They're louder this time. Brooklyn tenses beneath her ropes.

“Pretty big rat,” she whispers. The shuffling cuts off, and the attic goes silent.

I find the nail and stand, inching toward the noise. It came from the far corner of the attic, directly above the empty room where Alexis pulled out her own hair. The floor over there is bare, empty. It's kind of strange—Riley's magazines and cosmetics pack every corner of the attic. Except that one.

I kneel on the floor next to the wall.

“Is something there?” Brooklyn hisses. I hold a finger to my lips, quieting her. There is something, but it's quiet enough that I couldn't hear it across the room. The noise sounds familiar now. It's a low, rasping sound that I can't quite place.

I lean into the wall and press my ear against the wood. I recognize the noise now.